In desperate times desperate people head here – an online journal of Apocalyptic-themed fiction and commentary.

Suburban Passion In Three Acts

Copyright © 2006 by Juventino Manzano. All rights reserved.

her father

Suburban Passion in Three Acts

     He holds the Nixon biography in his clammy hands; the book has become like the hands — damp. Hears the snort of a nostril, a giggle. Boy speaks high and broken-winded fast: “Turn it on.” Bzzzzzzzzzzz — the massager’s on and he brushes the crotch of his pants. Turned on by the sounds, reveling in the feel of himself swelling, he lets the slick book slide to the floor.

     She cums and bzzzz and moans strung together, bell and choir echo. “Do it again!” Two snorts one after another.

ahhhh mmmmm bzzzzzzz ahhhhhh mmmmmmmm bzzzzzzzz. After seven she stops.

“Come here; I’ll make it hard, make it feel good.”

“It’s not getting hard.” Panting, desperate.

“It will.”

“Fuck, it’s the coke, fuck.”

He picks up the Nixon biography; turns to a page. Eyes look at the words, but only see the scene in his head wishing he was there cause he’d pick her up by her little waist and give it to her good — the way he’d given it to her mother when he was a young-on-top-of-the-world-entrepreneur-living-out-the-Dream. She was an Audrey Hepburn look-alike, and who could know she’d go to hell and fat after her 20s. Still got the Vanagon and unfulfilled desires — twisted like him — but can still get within two rooms of them…

his father

     So he did it finally; found a girl to marry his loser self. I mean the kid was about as disappointing as could be and he expects me to be here and prance around acting excited about him marrying this burned-out-new-age-beauty-queen. I’ll grant him that she is a young cutie. When I arrived she was dancing around waving a bundle of burning sage and crying out about bad energy in the living room and creating a “good vibe” for the party.

     Where did he meet this girl? One of those hippie rock concerts? Even more embarrassing “my” boy heading out back to skulk with his druggie friends behind the tool shed smoking dope and talking about me, smugly, arrogantly. Did he think I was going to be happy for him? Did he think being married would somehow remove the stigma that this “son” had caused me with the church and the neighbors? Not likely. A preacher raising a drug-using artist-pagan was not looked up to as having any credible advice on bringing up children. Fortunately for me, this stigma keeps my parishioners from asking too much of me, and as long they keep tithing I could care less. The Lord will deal with all of this riffraff. I am touching the flask in my hip pocket and thinking of the cool blood of Christ waiting for me within its smooth surface and I excuse myself from the clutch of the hippie girl’s Jewish mother who has been talking to me all this time and in the bathroom I am masturbating to the thought of the hippie fiancée working me over like a heretic on the rack. After I cum, I down the rest of the Wild Turkey, pop a mint, adjust my fly, and head back out to the party.

him, his friends, her:
the wedding party

     Billy Preston, AKA “Huffer,” a nickname dating back to his younger days of inhaling freon and gasoline in vain attempts to escape from his father, was now behind the tool shed with his buddies, Ram “the man” Masters and Juan “Hiney” Hinojosa, where he hit the fat spliff Juan had rolled earlier.

     “It’s good shit dude, I mixed in some hash and some dust.” He grinned watching the groom-to-be-Huffer hit the fat boy.

“Man, your pops should be stoked about Daisy,” Ram said, anxiously awaiting the joint Huffer held. “I mean, man, this is some sort of, like. stable thing for you. I mean you’re getting married.”

“Yeah, maybe someone else’s Dad. I’m sure mine could care less.” Huffer passed the spliff to Ram.

Daisy suddenly came around the corner skipping up on them throwing her arms around Billy. “Oh baby,” she giggled, “I need to use the bathroom, and your dad has been in it for like twelve hours. Do you thinkanyone would mind if I pee out here, baby?”

She held a smoking batch of sage which reminded Billy of when he had met her at a Lords of Acid concert where she had been running around with another lit bundle, crying out about energy and good vibes as she took off her top and started dancing, waving the sage around her. To Huffer, who’d been high as hell on some kick-ass mescaline Juan had given him, the tracers from the waving embers of the sage bundle were wonders to behold, and the girl producing them had been a vision on par with the appearance of the Virgin of Guadalupe. He had known, at that mescaline moment, love.

“Baby, I would love it if you would pee here so we can all watch.” Billy winked at his friends.

The burning spliff was passed to Daisy who stomped out the sage. Billy’s head felt like helium.

“Oh baby, do these boys want to see?”

Juan and Ram looked at each other with high red eyes, and the vibe was quite perceptible: a leaden feeling of lust amongst the four.

“I take that to mean no one minds.” Daisy’s blue eyes glinted.

“No!” was never said faster.

Daisy hiked up her purple paisley wedding dress and squatted down to pee in the center of the trinity of men as the Preacher was cuming to thoughts of exquisite torture by burning sage. While the groom and his buddies rubbed their crotches, Daisy’s piss, hitting the ground, raised a tiny cloud of dust.


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